Cast the First Stone
by Judah Jones
Summary: After the war, Danny comes home to a wife he hardly remembers. Two strangers bound in holy, miserable matrimony. Will secrets and infidelities destroy them? Or will love prevail? Danny/OC. Re-doing. Post-movie.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Pearl Harbor.

**Author's Note: **I published this without reading through first. Here is the real version, with mistakes fixed.

* * *

_Good-by to you whom I shall see tomorrow,_

_Next year and when I'm fifty; still good-by._

_This is the leave we never really take._

January 1976

Woodland Mills, Tennessee

Danny Walker

I tell my son war stories, because I want him to know what the textbooks leave out. It isn't about reading between the lines, more like reading behind them. They try to cover everything up with fancy words and dates and names. Some of those names I know personally. Some of them I watched die. But that's one of those things they don't write about. I can't remember what battle happened on what day, and damn, I was there for a few of them. We didn't have time to check our calendars. I kept track of time through letters. Alva wrote once every two weeks, like clockwork. Of course I didn't get any of them until later, but those letters were the only watch I owned.

Those text books make everything sound so neat, so organized, but we didn't have a clue what we were doing. Sure, we had orders. Sometimes we followed them. Sometimes, like the hot-blooded, arrogant boys we were, we "winged" it, literally. Rafe and I, we were the best at breaking rules. We got medals for it too. I keep mine the cedar box, wrapped in one of Alva's old handkerchiefs. When he was little, that medal made Noah think I was some kind of hero. He was proud of me back then, proud to say that "My daddy was a fighter pilot during the war. Man, he was actually there, killing all kinds of Germans. What was _your_ daddy doing?"

Funny how things change. Funny how people change. I haven't been in the cockpit of a plane since 1945. In fact, flying scares me more than dying, because back then the two kind of went hand in hand. When Noah, eight years old, told me he wanted to be a pilot when he grew up, I put my foot down. A load of good that did. He became one anyways. I've heard the skies are clearer these days, thank the Lord.

I was never a hero. I was a coward. I was a traitor. I was just another soldier in over his head, because when we signed up, we had no idea what exactly we'd gotten ourselves into. And why did I join in the first place? I got bored, restless. It wasn't for my country. It was because Rafe was going and, wherever Rafe went, well you'd find me there too. We still get together every Christmas. This year, though, we'll be seeing each other a little earlier than that. And because I'm old fashioned, we write to each other. He's trying to talk me into getting one of those cellular phones. Says they're the greatest, but I don't have many people to call.

Noah says I'm stuck in the past. He's a grown man now and my war stories aren't as interesting. They've gone stale. When he visits, which is rare enough, he likes to pretend that he's the one who needs to take care of me now; his poor, aging father. I let him think it's that way, just because most of the time I'm too tired set things straight. I'm old, not dead. Sometimes I forget to let the dog out or what day of the week it is, but my memory is just as sharp as ever. There are stories Noah still needs to hear, ones I wasn't allowed to tell him, and ones that I probably wouldn't have been brave enough to say anyways. Stories that won't make him think I'm any kind of hero. Not all wars have guns and fighter planes. Or medals.

"Can I get you something to drink, sweetheart?" In my eyes, everyone seems young, but our waitress is just a baby. She's calling me sweetheart. She's talking louder than she needs too, but just like with Noah, I don't bother to point out that my hearing is still in top notch condition. One of the few things.

"I think I'll have a Coca-cola, no ice, and one of those tomato and bacon sandwiches, with extra mayo, a side of onion rings, and go ahead and give me a slice of that apple pie. It's fresh baked, right?"

The waitress blinks. She hasn't written anything down.

"Uh, yeah. Just this morning."

"Two slices then." I hand her my menu. She blinks again, flashes an unsure smile, and leaves. She still didn't write anything down. I hope she doesn't forget the extra mayo. There's nothing worse than a dry sandwich. Alva, bless her heart, never quite got the hang of making them. I can't count all of the dry roasts, burnt greens, and rock-hard rolls I've eaten since I married her.

We used to come to this diner. It's switched hands a few times. The name has changed. Everything else is the same; even the old Juke box. When we first started dating, if you can even call it that, she was all about that Juke box. I gave her every quarter I had, and when we were feeling particularly daring, we'd dance. Alva was always feeling daring. If anyone had the heart to go off to war, it was her, not me. She would have been one hell of a soldier. Living with her was something similar to life in the barracks. You never knew when an attack was coming. You never knew if you were going to survive. Somehow we both managed to pull through. I'm not the most pious of men, but I prayed more after coming home to her than I ever did on the battlefield. There's more than one type of war in a man's life. Loving a woman is probably the damned hardest. Being a father takes a close second though.

I can see Noah from the window, the pay phone a permanent part of his ear. Almost like he can feel me watching, he turns his back on the diner, on me. Sometimes I wonder if he has any idea what he's getting himself into. My boy, who's never so much as held a BB gun, who spends every day writing articles for the newspaper, but doesn't really understand what's going on in the world. His mother would be proud. She was always the writer, always sending letters to anyone and everyone who would read them. He's just like her. Neither of them knows anything about staying alive. They leap, no they plunge, headfirst into any good idea, any cause. Optimistic hearts, that's what I call it, when people believe they can save something.

My boy, but not a boy anymore. He puts the pay phone back on its hook, but doesn't move right away. He rubs his temples and I want to tell him that this is the first of a thousand migraines. The waitress is back with my Coca-Cola and tomato bacon sandwich.

"Smells good," I say, turning from the window. Noah's on his way inside now. "Do me a favor and bring out a coffee too, black."

"Sure thing, sweetheart." She passes Noah on her way to the crowded counter, glances at him once, then twice just to make sure he's really as handsome as she first thought. He is. My boy is the kind of man I used to hate in my younger days, the kind of man who stole the attention of any woman I was ever interested in. In fact, he reminds me of Rafe in that way. Good looking, but more oblivious to his charms than Rafe was. Right now, his generally composed features are a muddled mix between fatigue, fury, and affection. He's here to humor me, but he's far from happy about this unplanned trip with his old man.

"How's Lucy?" I ask, patting my mouth with a paper napkin, as he slides into the booth across from me. Noah slumps against the seat, half glowering.

"Pissed," he grunts. The waitress drops the black coffee off at our table, on her way to another couple in the far corner, with a quick signal that she'll be back for Noah's order in a minute. I push the steaming cup to my son. He takes a sip, puckers his lips, then decides to go for another.

"I didn't start drinking my coffee black until I married your mother."

"If you brought me here to talk me out of-" Noah begins defensively.

"I didn't. You're too old for me to talk you out of anything. And too stubborn." Noah arches a suspicious eyebrow.

"Then what's all of this about? What was so damn important you had to drag me to the middle of nowhere the day before my wedding?" He's dropped the w-word. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not against his getting married. Hell, it's about time, and Lucy's a fine girl. I'm just not sure Noah understands that this is a lifetime deal. Once you're in, you're in for good. I learned that the hard way, and it's the flaw of all parents to try and prevent their children from making the same mistakes as them. Not that my marriage was a mistake. Just parts of it.

Before I can answer Noah's question, the waitress is back, thank the Lord. He orders another coffee. I tell him to get something to eat. He orders a plate of fries. I say that's not enough. Exasperated, he gets a burger too. The waitress tries not to laugh. When she leaves, I don't let the conversation pick up where it's left off. I'm not ready to tell him anything yet.

"Rafe got us kicked out of this place once, you know. He got a little too fresh with one of the waitresses, who happened to also be the…"

"Manager's daughter," Noah finishes, bored. "Dad, I'm not in the mood for a trip down memory lane, so could you just tell me…is that bacon?"

"Maybe," I shrug. Noah's eyebrows knit together, just the way his mother's did when I was about to get a lecture. Here we go.

"Geez dad, are you trying to kill yourself? You know what the doctor said, no fatty foods. Your heart isn't-"

"My heart is doing just fine, thank you. Don't you worry." I take another bite, bigger than necessary, of my sandwich. Noah frowns, but he doesn't say any more.

Noah's food arrives. He doesn't eat. I watch him swirl his fries in ketchup, unaware that some of it is sloshing onto his sleeve. He stares out the window, far away from me, thinking about Lucy and tomorrow. I put down my sandwich, trying to go back to when I was in his shoes. How did I feel the day before my wedding? Like I wasn't ready. Like I was going to throw up everything I'd ever eaten in my entire life. Most of all, I felt like I was too young, but all of that was buried underneath stupid, puppy love. You don't look ahead to the days, months, and years that come after the ceremony. You don't fully understand that those rings will be on your fingers every moment of every day for the rest of your lives, because just thinking about "the rest of your life" is a concept beyond reach. At least when you're young. For me now, old and with a weak heart, it isn't difficult to imagine at all.

"You want to know why I brought you here?" Noah stirs from his reverie and focuses on me again. He nods. "Tell me something first though. Are you scared?"

Noah thinks about it for awhile. He weighs everything. I can see his thoughts churning in the dark waves of the eyes he inherited from his mother. Lord, those eyes, could have killed any man. My son sighs. All of his irritation with me, all of his careful pride and arrogance drains away, and he looks at me like he used to do when he was little and I had to check under the bed for monsters and Nazis.

"I've never been more terrified in my life," he admits. And I smile.

"Good, that's good." Maybe he's more ready than I thought he was. I move to stand. Noah is on his feet before me, holding out my cane. We haven't finished our lunch, but it's time to move on.

"There's something I need to show you. Go pay and meet me at the car." Before Noah can argue, I'm hobbling away. I hate that I have to describe my walk as "hobbling" now. By the time I cross the parking lot and reach Noah's silly red car, he's finished paying is quickly catching up to me. I don't clamber into the passenger seat. Instead I move towards the trunk and gesture for him to pop it. Ever the obedient son, Noah does so without question.

At first, all he can see is a moth-eaten afghan, but when I move it aside, his eyes widen. Beneath the ancient blanket, is nestled the cedar chest, not very large, the wood darkened with age and decorated with a myriad of designs. Hand-carved, more than sixty years ago, by a German soldier.

"This was mom's," Noah says softly. He reaches out tentatively to touch the chest, before thinking better of it. For the better part of his childhood, he was told to never, ever open this little box. Old habits die hard. I heave the chest out of the trunk, it isn't terribly heavy, but the effort leaves me winded, and press it into Noah's arms.

"Everything you need to know is in here. Your mother, she made me promise I wouldn't give this to you until…well until she was gone and you were ready." Noah holds the chest closely, questioningly.

"Her diaries are in there, some letters and other odds and ends as well." He's confused, but I refuse to say more. He'll know soon enough. The story inside of that chest is one that I'm far too tired to tell. It's a war story. It's a love story. More importantly, it's our story.

I pat Noah on the shoulder, squeezing as hard as my arthritic fingers will allow. This won't be easy, but he needs to know the truth. The truth about marriage, love, and our family. More so now than ever.

"Read quickly. We've got to head out by nightfall if we want to make it back in time for tomorrow."

"Dad-" Noah doesn't quite know what he wants to say. I shake my head gently.

"Just read." I don't stick around to see if he follows my orders. I know he will. Instead I start out on the dusty road, slowly, making my way back to the place where everything began. You see, before you can start again, you have to go all the way to the place you came from. You have to remember the story, even if it hurts. I'm going to let my son hear this story, because I want him to know everything his mother and I left out, everything we tried to forget and everything we couldn't help to remember.


	2. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Pearl Harbor.

**Author's Note: **Re-doing this story, but it won't be very different.

* * *

_If you were dead or gone to live in China_

_The event might draw your stature in my mind._

Woodland Mills, Tennessee

1945

Alva Clare

Small towns are honey bee hives and everyone is buzzing today. The little Wilkes' boys saw a caravan headed our way, with the flags waving, those red, white, and blue flags. The youngest Wilkes' boy, so the gossip goes, stopped right there on the roadside and sang the Anthem in his sweet, Sunday choir falsetto, while his brothers saluted with the gravity of old men. No one else has seen the caravan, but Henrietta Jones claims she witnessed two soldiers walk past while she was having her hair curled. She said she was just sitting there under the dryer, talking to Ms. Patty, when they marched on past. Those brave boys, she called them.

Now everyone is on the lookout. A small town of peeled eyes and baited breath, if anyone is even breathing. It's never a good thing when soldiers arrive on the winds of flags flying. It means someone else is dead. We've had enough corpses brought to us by now to recognize the signs. So the Wilkes' boys can sing and salute, Henrietta Jones can call them brave boys, but the rest of us are waiting to see if this is a myth or a real life story.

"It just doesn't seem right." Mrs. Newsome looks past me and the bin of eggplant between us, fresh from her home garden. She grows the best eggplant and the best tomatoes, but not many people are buying from her street-stall today.

"What doesn't seem right?" I weigh two vegetables in my hands. Which is heavier? Which will last longer? Which looks prettier in the sunlight? Mrs. Newsome shakes her head like it's all a tragedy, which I suppose it is.

"The war's over. We all heard President Truman on the radio, didn't we?"

"I reckon we did." The eggplant in my right hand seems like the better choice. I move on to the corn, while Mrs. Newsome looks from one end of the street to the other. Everyone is lined up outside of shop fronts. The men, most of them old because they're the only kind this town has left, have pinned on their veteran badges from the first Great War. They've worn them since the Pearl Harbor incident; something about pride, something about support for the boys who filled their combat boots. The women fan themselves with whatever is nearby; gloves, hats, napkins. They dab sweat from their brows and they all look like widows. Half of them are. The children don't even dare to play tag in the street like they normally would.

"Well, if the war is over," Mrs. Newsome says, "Why haven't they stopped bringing us bodies?"

"I suppose there isn't really a tidy end to fighting. How much for three ears of corn?" She looks at me like she didn't know I was here, blinking those squinty eyes that time has drained most of the color out of, but none of the arrogance.

"Corn?" she snaps, through pursed lips. "How can you think about things like that at a time like this?"

"I still have to make dinner tonight." Life doesn't stop. You learn that the hard way, when your stomach aches almost as bad as your heart does and you realize that you still have to eat and you still have to clean and you still have to make money somehow, even though they're gone. While our brave boys were fighting a war, we were here doing chores. We were darning socks and shucking corn. We were feeding the cows and trying our damnedest to farm plots of land too big for us.

"Girl, that could be your husband they're bringing back in a coffin. Don't you care?" Mrs. Newsome looks like she could slap me. A lot of people seem to feel that way lately. Can't say I blame them.

"Will this cover it? The corn and the eggplant?" Mrs. Newsome takes my money, shaking her head over another tragedy. I take my vegetables and move on.

But she doesn't know the half of it. _Don't you care?_ Of course I care. It's all I've cared about for the past five years. This is a war, or I suppose it was a war, and there was just as much fighting here as there was over there. I've been fighting to stay sane. I've been living on the frontlines of an empty house and an empty bed. I've felt the grenade blast of heartache.

After five years your skin toughens. At first, I saw his face on every one of those caskets, and I waited like a premature widow with the other women, when they would still have me. I could have killed myself waiting and worrying. Maybe I did. Maybe that's why I can only think about corn and dinner and dusting the cabinets.

For all I know, they'll come to me today, bringing with them the word, the gospel of war. I'll be a real widow then, not simply one in theory, because as far as I'm concerned my husband died the day he stopped returning my letters. That was a year, three months, and twelve days ago. I counted because there was nothing better to do. So they might as well tell me he's gone for good. Sometimes it's easier just to think that he died, that he was burned beyond recognition in some plane crash, than to accept that he left me. He abandoned me, when he promised he'd come home. Yes, that hurts more than anything else. Better dead than betrayed me.

And I like to think that I really believe that, but I don't. It stings to picture him somewhere out there, happy, maybe with another woman who's more beautiful than me, in a town that's bigger than this. Still, I'd rather him there than in a wooden box. I'd rather never see him again than see him lowered into the ground and the funny part is I don't even know if I love him anymore. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. I say it makes the heart grow colder.

All these women praying for their husbands to come back. All these good wives who frown on me, because I'm angry. Because I can't forgive him for leaving me alone, for forgetting me. Am I so wrong? God knows I tried to warn him that I wouldn't make a good wife, but he insisted on marrying me anyways. I didn't understand it then, I don't understand it now, and neither does anyone one else in this town.

I suppose there was a time, once, when we were very much in love. Sometimes I can remember it. Sometimes I can dream about it, but there's always the waking up. If he loved me still, he wouldn't have stopped writing. He wouldn't have driven me crazy from worrying. I don't want him dead. I don't know if I want him here. Frankly, I don't know anything that I want.

Town slips behind me. There are only dying fields here, surrounding our dying home. I couldn't keep the crops up. I could hardly keep the house from caving in. The front porch creaks. The doors won't lock, but no one comes this far anyways. Kids have busted in one of the windows, probably the Wilkes' boys. Everything just goes to the bottom of my 'things to fix' list, but there are too many things for one woman to fix.

"Mr. Walker!" I shuffle into the kitchen, my arms laden with vegetables, accustomed to the silence that greets me. "Mr. Walker, you here?" I dump the corn and eggplant into the sink. It'll need to be washed, the corn shucked, everything boiled. Then there's the roast to take care of and the tea to make.

I stand at the sink, putting it all off for just a moment, and look out across the overgrown lawn that needs to be trimmed. A lone figure, hunched and familiar, hobbles into the barn. It's where he goes to drink off the day. It appears I'll have dinner alone. Mr. Walker won't stumble in until well past midnight, supposing he comes in at all.

It's just me and as I wash the vegetables, I can't help think that every creak of this old house is a knock on the front door, two soldiers here to tell me that my husband is dead and I'm going to be alone forever. I don't need them to tell me though. I've known for a long time. My husband is gone. Danny is not coming back.

* * *

_Danny,_

_Before you left, I told you that this wasn't our war, but now I realize that you've made it ours by leaving. Everyone knows you'll follow Rafe to the end of the world and back. Everyone knows that if he fights, so do you. Well, here's your grand adventure. Here is your shining moment. I hope it's everything you ever wanted it to be. Just remember that you asked me to marry you. Rafe isn't the one wearing your wedding band. Neither is this country. Do I sound bitter? Because I still am._

_You're a man. You're a flyboy. The ground just isn't enough for you and neither is this town. But aren't I? Couldn't you have stayed? Whine and nag is all I do. I just want you to understand something. I've never asked much else from you. I've let you follow your whims and all I've ever asked was for you to take me with you. I've packed my bags so many times with the intention of following you, but there's no place for wives in war. At least wives that aren't nurses and we both know I'm not patient enough to stitch wounds. I am not patient enough to sit around and wait for you, but I'll try. If it kills me, I will. _

_I just want you to understand that you went somewhere I couldn't follow and it breaks my heart. Feel guilty. Very guilty. I'm still furious with you and if you die on me, I will never forgive you._

_Alva_

_Dear Al,_

_I wish you could see New York. Someday you will, because I'll bring you myself. I'll take you to see the Statue of Liberty. She's a beauty, but not as beautiful as you of course. Can compliments win you over? Probably not and still a man has to try. Still, this city! Just think about looking at the stars back home on a clear night. Then imagine an entire city made out of those same stars!_

_Don't worry though. I haven't forgotten that I'm married to you. How could I? No city of stars will ever make me forget you. I'll come home and you can yell at me all you want. I promise. Baby, I look forward to making you fall in love with me all over again._

_Just don't be sore for too long. It's like I'm away on a business trip. We're not even in the war. There's no danger. I won't die. The only risk is I'll grow fat from all of this sitting around. So don't go grey over this. And don't ever think that I left because you aren't good enough. Alva Clare Walker, you're the only thing I've ever wanted. Tell me to come home and I will. Just tell me. _

_Because I love you more than any grand adventure._

_Love Danny_

_P.S. Rumor is we're going to be shipped out to Hawaii. The ocean! I've never seen the ocean. I'll bring you back anything you want. Pearls from Pearl Harbor. Do they even have pearls?_

_Danny,_

_I can't ask you to come home. It wouldn't be fair. Go to Hawaii. See the ocean. Tell me all about it. We have a lifetime to be together. I'm just being selfish. Have a good look at the world and then come back to me. I give you my permission to…_

* * *

Danny Walker

"Hey Danny! We're gonna miss the train." Hell hath no fury like a man who wants to go home. Rafe storms into the room. I tuck Alva's letter away quickly, half of it still unread, but it doesn't matter because I have them all pretty much memorized. _I give you my permission to fly. _

"You're not even packed yet!" Rafe exclaims, taking in the clothes thrown across the room and the empty suitcase. He wastes no time going to work, throwing the few things I own haphazardly into the open case. There isn't much. Soldiers don't keep many personal possessions.

I don't move from the foot of the bed. I just let him have his way. We've spent a lifetime together; long enough to know there's no stopping him. Not even a German air raid could kill Rafe McCawley. Not even a goddamn war. Well, I suppose it didn't kill me either. At least not by most people's terms. I'm still breathing. I'm still walking around on two legs with maybe a few scars here and there. It's better than a lot of men can claim. But I feel so much worse off than if I was paralyzed.

"We're going home!" Rafe throws a pair of trousers in my face. He grins from ear to ear. I know what I'm about to say will make it fade.

"Maybe you should go without me."

"What?" He stops moving for perhaps the first time in his life. Rafe is still. He looks at me like I've sprouted another head, like I'm someone he doesn't know, when he knows me better than anyone. Though sometimes I wish he didn't.

"You're joking, right?"

"No." Alva's letter crinkles in my pocket. I promised her I'd come home. I promised her so many things that I didn't keep to. What's one more?

I duck just in time to avoid the boot that Rafe chucks at my head. It hits the wall instead with a dull thud.

"We're going home, Danny! Home! Did you get shot in the head or something?"

"Rafe, I just don't think-"

"You don't think? Yeah, I see that. Now get your ass off of that bed and come on."

"I'm not going."

"This is about Al." Rafe picks up my suitcase, straining at the clasps, and shoves it hard into my chest. "You can't run away from her. Hell, she'd just chase you down."

"She wouldn't." Because she hates me. How could she not? I stopped writing. I read all of her letters, one for every week, each begging me to reply. She just wanted to know if I was alive and I couldn't even bring myself to tell her that much. And that's not the worst of it. That only scratches the surface.

"I can't go back there," I admit. Since this war ended, it's all I've had to think about. There's no distraction. Up in the air, nothing down here mattered. There's only room in your head for flying and the boys coming through your headset. There's only room for thoughts of not dying. Then, at some point, we landed and I had to remember.

It's been a little over a month, I suppose, and it's taken me all of that time, while Rafe and the boys drank and celebrated, to understand that I can't go home. I stood toe to toe with Japs and Germans, but I can't face my wife. I can't tell her…I can't tell her about…

My father wasn't a particularly religious man. I grew up hearing the Bible the way he thought it should have been written. His favorite story was Adam and Eve. "That bitch," he'd say. "See there, boy, you can't trust d'em women. They all poison." I should have listened to him, because I fell for a temptress of my own. Not an Eve, but an Evelyn.

Those days on the beaches, with the sand in our hair, our skin, between our lips. Watching sunsets that we didn't think anyone else could see. It all seems like so long ago. That was before they blew up Pearl Harbor, before everything went to Hell. Sometimes I wonder if it even ever existed. Could I have been that happy, that peaceful? Just holding Evelyn's hand and forgetting about the war we weren't a part of yet and forgetting about the woman I'd left behind.

I kept replying to Alva's letters for a long time, but even I know they grew cold. We started talking about our days in detail, but with no feeling. _I ate this. I flew here. The men snore in their sleep._ Each day it was harder and harder to believe that I had a wife, that I had someone waiting for me. When men were dying, when things looked too grim, I didn't think about Alva. I closed my eyes and dreamed of those beach days with Evelyn. It took me years to fall in love with my wife, but only weeks to go head over heels for my best friend's girl. I never thought of myself as having a fickle heart. Then again, I also never thought I was the type of man capable of killing, and I've done my fair share of that.

Maybe my father was wrong. It isn't women that can't be trusted, it's men. Evelyn, that woman, never led me on. She never encouraged me. We were both caught up in our own heartache, thinking that Rafe was dead, and trying our hardest to cling to any part of him left over. Then when he came back, just as alive as he ever was, Evelyn made her decision.

"I love him, Danny. I'll always love him, but it doesn't mean I didn't really care for you." She'd cried as she said it, but she moved on. She's always been, and always will be, Rafe's. I loved her though, something fierce, and a part of me still does. What kind of man does that make me? How do I tell my wife that I fell in love with another woman? That I loved this other woman so damn much that there wasn't any way I could love the wife I'd promised to love and cherish until the day I died.

Evelyn never knew I was married. For all I know, she still doesn't. We haven't talked in over a year. She writes Rafe all of the time and it gets the fire pumping in my veins. Jealousy is an ugly color. No, Evelyn wouldn't have let things go where they did had she known. She's a good woman. I have no one to blame, but myself. And the moment of truth is here. Now we see what kind of man I really am. A coward who can't fess up to his crimes and do the right thing by the girl he married five years ago. Five long years ago. I just can't tell Alva that I don't love her anymore.

"You are going back," Rafe says, no trace of the usual carefree attitude about him. "Because Alva deserves it."

"Deserves what? Her heart broken?" I snort. He looks me square in the eye; my best friend, the best man at our wedding, and sometimes my worst enemy. He's always overestimated my ability to be brave. I'm not the daring one. It was always him and Alva running off on adventures; jumping off of roofs, climbing trees that were too high, tipping Mr. Yancey's cows. I was the one watching and worrying about being caught. I was the one who ran first at the first sign of trouble.

"She deserves the truth and she deserves to hear it from you, her husband. I don't know what thoughts you have running through that head of yours, but that girl has been waiting for you for five years. You aren't going to run out of her just because you feel guilty. Maybe she'll kick you out of the house. Maybe she'll forgive you. Either way, she deserves to be able to make that choice. Now finish packing. We've got a train to catch."

"Rafe, I don't think I can-" The door slams. He's gone. I know if I don't follow, he'll drag me to the train station kicking and screaming. I also know he's right. He's always right.

I sigh and kick the suitcase at my feet. Home. Knowing Alva, I won't be there for long before I'm out on the street with no place to go. But Rafe forgave me. It took time. It took hard work and a goddamn war, but eventually he forgave me. Maybe Alva can too. Maybe…maybe things can go back to the way they used to be.

I pick up the suitcase. My wife's letter whispers against the fabric of my undershirt. If only I could believe the bullshit I'm trying to feed myself. Things will never be the way they were.


	3. The things sad people do

_I should be forced to look upon you whole_

_The way we look upon the things we lose._

April 1929

Woodland Mills, Tennessee

_Mama,_

_ For my daughter's sake, if not for my own, I do what I promised myself I never would. I beg for your forgiveness. Forgive me for leaving. Forgive me for not writing. Forgive me for the pain I made you and papa endure. It has been fourteen long years since I left and I doubt you expected to hear from me again. I survived the war. Perhaps you believed me dead. I married. I mothered a beautiful child, your grandchild. I have lived a life that I never could have in Tennessee, but I ask you to forgive all of that._

_ We have lost so much in this past month. I have lost a husband. Please mama, warm your heart to me in this time when I need you most. I have nowhere to go. If you and papa cannot have sympathy for me, think of your granddaughter. Her name is Alva. She will be eight this August and she looks so much like you. She needs a home and I cannot provide one. Think of her. If you can, think of me. I was stubborn and young and foolish. Do not punish your granddaughter on behalf of my mistakes, I beg you. I plead that you and papa will allow me to come home._

_ Sincerely, your loving daughter, Constance_

"Don't play with your dress, girl, it will wrinkle." The old woman snapped her fan against the young girl's hands. Alva let them fall listlessly to her sides. She hated the dress anyways. She hated it's itchy, starched collar, the polished, white buttons, and the baby doll pink fabric. She hated the panty hose she had to wear under it, that bunched in the shiny black shoes she'd been given. She hated the black shoes as well. She hated the frilly underwear that felt too coarse. She hated the way her hair had been braided so tightly it left her dizzy. Most of all she hated the old woman she'd come to learn was her grandmother.

The old woman with her pinched and rouged cheeks, white gloves, and pearl necklaces that sunk into the folds of sunken skin about her neck. The old woman with the rose petal fan that she used as a weapon more than anything else. The old woman who only ever said 'don't do this, don't do that'.

"Sit up straight, girl. Were you raised by barbarians? Do the French have no sense of propriety?" Alva straightened her spine. She crossed her ankles. She held her hands still in her lap and didn't fiddle with the detested baby doll pink fabric of the dress.

"Those French women, with their fancy clothes and lose morals, are all whores if you ask my opinion. Tell me, girl, do many of them wear trousers over there?"

"Some." The fan rapped against Alva's knuckles once more.

"You will answer either yes ma'am or no ma'am."

"Yes ma'am. Where's mama?"

"Bed, I suppose. Ungrateful little thing, your mother. I welcome her into my home, after all the shame she's put me through, and she spends her days in bed, doesn't even offer to help around the house."

"She's sad, ma'am," Alva mumbled.

"Speak up, girl."

"I said she's sad."

"Don't sass me." Alva winced as the fan came down again. Her hands flushed red. "We're all sad, but life goes on. Your mother brought this on herself. She could have stayed her, married a wealthy man, and lived happily. She was engaged, you know, to a very nice fellow, but he wasn't good enough for your mother. She didn't _love_ him. She said he was dull. Instead she runs off and marries that German filth. Well, I hope her adventure was worth it."

Alva stared at her reflection in the shiny, black shoes. She bit down hard on her tongue. There were so many things she wanted to do. She wanted to tear the old woman's string of expensive pearls from her neck and watch each one roll between the cracks in the porch. She wanted to scream. She wanted to wear her own clothes again, not these stupid dresses the old woman bought her. More than anything, she wanted to go home. She wanted to wake up and find that this was all a very bad dream, and her papa would still be there, snoring in the next room.

"We should have locked her away. Perhaps we could have saved her from becoming some German's harlot, but your grandfather and I aren't really to blame. We did all we could for your mother. Some children are just born bad." The old woman looked at Alva with beady, old eyes. Her perpetually unpleasant expression soured even further.

"Now that you're here, there might be hope for you, girl. Perhaps it's for the best that man died. What was it that happened? A car accident, correct? I suppose he had a few too many drinks before…"

Alva stood suddenly. Her beaten knuckles burned bone white through clenched fists. Enough. Enough. She couldn't take another minute.

"My father was a good man," Alva snarled. " He was certainly better than you. You're just a bitter, old hag and I wish you were dead instead of him." The fan swung, but Alva was already leaping over the porch railing. She was running and running, as the old woman howled at her back.

"Just like your mother! You little brat, don't you dare come back to this house! Do you hear me? If you do, I'll give you the beating you deserve."

Alva didn't ever want to go back anyways. She plunged headfirst into the cornfield. She kept running, pushing her way through the tall stalks, with no direction. The horrible dress caught and ripped. Without stopping, Alva kicked off the black, shiny shoes. She tore the ribbon from her hair and crushed it beneath her feet. She ran until she couldn't see the old woman or see the pretty white house with its trimmed lawn and wrap-around porch. She ran until she couldn't see anything but corn, all around her, then she stopped. Suddenly still, the invisible monster she'd tried to flee, crashed into her, and she fell to the ground.

Alva tried to catch her sobs in her hands, but they slipped through her fingers. Tears cleaned a path through the dirt on her cheeks. She hated everything. She hated the old woman. She hated her mother for bringing them here. She hated Tennessee and the corn fields. Most of all she hated God for taking her father away.

"Give him back!" she cried, beating her curled fists into the dirt. "Give him back!" She sobbed until every inch of her body ached, and then she tucked her knees into her chest and made the decision to never move again. _I'll starve here_, she thought. _No one will find me in this jungle. No one will look._ Her mother never left her bed. The old woman would be happier without her. Her father was dead. There was no one else in the great, wide world that even knew she existed.

Alva felt very small. Everything in this place was so wide; the sky and the fields. She could walk for days and never go anywhere. The people that she'd seen hadn't bothered looking back at her, and if they did it was never a kind glance. Everything and everyone here was so strange. They all seemed to hate her and she wasn't sure why. What had she done?

Alva closed her eyes and tried to pretend that she was home again, in their small apartment, with the hustle and bustle of the Champs-Elysees drifting in through the open windows. She could almost smell the sweet perfume the French women wore. All of the women in Tennessee smelled like dirt and sweat to her. Along with everything else.

She wasn't sure how she'd gotten her. Just a month ago they were happy. Her mother still smiled. Her father came home from work singing with a bouquet of roses for her and her mother. Until the day that he didn't. Until they day he never walked through the door. Then her mother cried every night and every day. Then they were on a boat, then a train, then at the old woman's front door. Then she was in a corn field, lost, and alone.

Alone until he arrived. The boy came from nowhere. Alva heard the rustle and snap of corn stalks, before he barreled over her and fell. He didn't move from where he landed, face down, breathing hard, for a long time. Alva rose to her knees. She bent over him, afraid that she'd killed him. He'd hit his head too hard. He was going to die right beside her and she didn't know what to do. She reached out her hand to touch him.

Then he moved. The boy turned his face away from the dirt to look at her, and it was such a look of surprise and puzzlement, the way someone would look at something that didn't belong. Alva fell back. She only noticed one thing about him.

"Have you been crying?" she asked baldly. The boy sniffed. He wiped his hand across his red-rimmed eyes.

"No," he muttered. But he had. Alva wasn't sure why, but her heart ached for this boy she didn't even know. Here he was, in her lonely world, and he looked like he belonged there as well. She reached her hand out to him again. He flinched. He was like a wild animal, frightened and unsure, but she touched him anyways. Her thumb stroked his cheek and she could feel the dirt on his skin.

"It's okay if you were crying. I was too."

"I wasn't!" The boy leapt to his feet. He glared down at her. "Only girls cry. I ain't no girl." Alva wanted to say something back, but she couldn't think of a single time she'd seen a boy cry. She'd seen her mother and sometimes her classmates on the playground, but all of them had been girls. Was it true? Didn't boys cry too? Certainly this one had been. Because if boys didn't cry, did that mean they didn't hurt? Alva didn't think that was true.

"Everyone cries," she stated. "It isn't a bad thing to do, I don't think."

"You don't know anything," the boy hissed. He looked angry now. Alva stood up, but he pushed her back down. She landed on her rear end hard. The boy towered over her. "And don't go telling anyone that you saw me crying, or else you'll be sorry. Got it?" Alva nodded.

Then the boy ducked back into the wilderness of the cornfield. He left as quickly as he'd come. She was alone again, but not quite as much so, because she knew that the boy was lonely and sad too. She couldn't even be mad at him for pushing her. Sad people did funny things; like her mother who hadn't left the bed in weeks or even the old woman who probably just wanted to make everyone as miserable as she was. Sadness just made everyone crazy. And everyone was sad sometimes. Everyone was crazy.

Alva lay back down and closed her eyes. She fell asleep in the lonely cornfield, thinking about home, thinking about the days when she never thought about sadness at all, and thinking about the boy who'd been crying too.


	4. Chapter Two

_We see each other daily and in segments;_

_Parting might make us meet anew, entire_

Woodland Mills, Tennessee

1945

Danny Walker

I'm convinced this world isn't real, because everything is in bloom. I smell the honeysuckles on the roadside and the ones in Rafe's hands. He pulls them apart slowly, with the expertise of someone who had been plucking honeysuckle for years, which he has, but I decline the blossoms that he offers me. They were Alva's favorite. She'd never seen them before she came here. I remember how excited she'd been when we taught her how to pinch the bottom tip of the bloom and pull out the stem, where there'd be a tiny drop of sweet nectar. It took her too long to get the hang of it. She'd whip out the stem too recklessly. Impatient, as usual. I'd forgotten that until now. I've forgotten a lot of things.

The train let us off at a station five miles from home. We're on the main road, the only real road in Woodland Mills, that cuts straight through the heart of town, but I'll veer off soon and cut through the corn fields. The bag over my shoulder gets heavier and heavier, like someone loaded it with rocks, instead of clothes and letters. It's the letters, I think, that weigh so much. Rafe starts singing.

"Come lay it down, won't you? Come burn it down, can't you? Lay it down, the guns above the ground." He isn't a blue jay with the songs. Pitch and key and tempo aren't known words to him, but he always sings like it's the end of the world, with his whole heart. I used to hate standing beside him in church on the Sundays his family invited me, because he sang the loudest and the worst. Now I don't mind. We sang a lot during the war, all of us, because there wasn't much else to do besides die. We sang about home and love. We sang about America. We sang about victory and Jesus. I think soldiers sing better than any choir I've ever heard, because like Rafe, we sang like it was the end of the world, because it very well might have been.

"From the prophet came the king, from the king came the pauper, from the pauper came the swing, from the swing came creation, from creation came love, you don't know what this love is all about." You don't know what this love is all about. Alva could never carry a note either. I remember. I'm remembering. But sometimes when she laughed it sounded like music to me. It seems like such a silly thing to say now. I'm not a poet. I was just in love once. Twice. I've never heard Evelyn sing, so I can't say anything about that. I did hear her laugh and it was lovely, but not music. I wonder if Alva still sings when she's cooking. I wonder if she still laughs.

That was something else we did a lot of during the war, laugh. Nothing was every very funny, but it was the only thing we could do. A friend of mine lost his right hand. Right after it happened, he just looked at me, over this bloody stump, this peeking piece of bone, this empty space where his hand had been, and he smiled. He said, "Guess I'll have to wank with the other hand now." And we laughed, in the middle of a war. He died a few weeks later. His plane went down. Men with one hand just can't steer a Bf 109, but we were desperate for pilots.

"Dragging my feet any longer through the pussy litter, dragging my feet a little longer…" There was another man, a retired preacher from Alabama with two daughters, that I was fond of. He kept pictures of his little girls in his cigarette box. Told us that he only took up smoking after he stopped preaching and the war started. Told us that if he survived, he'd give it up and stop trying to die all of the time. Told us that he wanted to go home. He prayed over the bodies they managed to bring back, even though he protested every time, on account that he wasn't truly a man of the church anymore. He told us a lot of things about his daughter, some things about himself, but never why he stopped preaching. But he did tell me, just me personally, that he doubts about it all. Didn't we all? He was killed in a bomb raid, two months before the war ended. They didn't find his body, but I prayed for him anyways, despite my doubts. Rafe wrote the letter to his wife.

"Do we ever have enough, when we see that blue dove? Do we ever have enough when we see that blue dove? We want to go where no one's been. No one's been." And then there was this man who joined the United States Air Corps mainly because his best friend did, and partly because he wanted to go where no one had ever been. He wanted to see the world. He wanted to fly. He had a new wife back home. She wrote to him once a week, but he didn't talk about her like the other men talked about their women. She was his childhood sweetheart, but he didn't have a picture of her stashed in some place like the other men had of their women. He didn't talk about how he was just fighting to get home to her.

He got so lost in the war. He forgot that a world existed outside of the hell we lived in then. He forgot at one point he'd sat down at a dinner table with his wife. He forgot he'd ever reached across the table just to touch her hand and they'd let their food grow cold while they went to bed early and slept in late. All that he knew was crouching over a low fire, shuffling beans from the can to his mouth as quick as he could, and joking and singing with the men beside him. All that he knew was going to bed surrounded by twenty or more of those same men, and being shaken awake by the best friend he'd followed to war before sunrise, in the mud. He didn't go where no one had ever been before. He went to where he hoped no one ever had to go again. And he survived the war. Now he's on the main road, about to veer off into the cornfields, and his best friend his still singing beside him.

"Come lay it down, won't you? Come burn it down, can't you? Lay it down, the guns above the ground, won't you?" This is so easy for Rafe. He'll go home to a family that loves him. He'll write a letter to the woman he loves and never once forgot. He'll go on with his life. Ever since we were kids, I've always wanted to be just like him. Now more than ever, but I can't, because I'm still convinced this world isn't real. At least not anymore. I'm still convinced the war isn't over, because I can feel it in my bones, and I've seen bones. I didn't know they were so white. I've seen men die. I've seen men cry and my father used to tell me that boys don't cry, but Alva once told me that everyone did. I remember that now too. So how do I come home and eat honeysuckles and love my wife and pretend that nothing has changed? How do I forget what I've seen and remember what I forgot?

"Danny? Are you listening to me?" Rafe has stopped. When I do too, I realize we're at the point where I leave him. We haven't been separated since the time he left and we all thought he died.

"No, sorry, what did you say?"

"I need to talk to you about something, before you go home. I'd let it wait until later, but it's important." Whenever he says something is important, I know it's going to be bad, and whenever he starts tapping his hand against his leg, I know it's going to be a goddamn disaster.

"Alright. Go ahead." Rafe sucks in a deep breath, so much air that there isn't any left for me.

"Evelyn and I, well, we're getting married." A goddamn disaster. I just stare at him for awhile, not even trying to think of something to say. What do you say in situations like this anyways? Congratulations, you're marrying the girl I fell in love with too. I'm so damn happy that my best friend is going to spend the rest of his life with the woman who I can never have.

"Danny? Are you alright there?" I shake my head. I clear my thoughts. And my dry throat.

"Good for you." The words come out like a bullfrog's croak, just less sincere. So I try again. "Really, that's great. Have you set a date?"

"No, but soon. She'll be coming down in a month or two."

"Coming here?" I don't know what I expected. Of course Evelyn would come back into my life in some way or another. As my best friend's wife. Of course I couldn't run from her, at least not without running from Rafe too, and I know in this moment I have a terrible power over him. If I asked him, right now, not to marry Evelyn, he wouldn't. If I just asked.

"Coming here, that's all great," I say. "I wish you both the best." Rafe breathes out in relief, but his hand is still tapping, tapping, tapping.

"There's one more thing." Goddamn. "Evelyn and I have talked about this a lot and…" Goddamn. "We want you to be the best man." Goddamn disaster.

"Rafe, I don't-"

"Let's put it all behind us, Danny," Rafe says, stepping closer to me, caging me. "We're home." Home. I forgot what that was. I forgot. "I was your best man and I can't imagine asking anyone else to be mine. Please."

Rafe doesn't mean to be cruel sometimes, but he can be. I want to say no. I want to scream it. I want, for the first time in our lives, to not follow him. Maybe he and Evelyn can put it all behind them. Maybe I can keep pretending like I have too. Maybe I can just say no. I love her. I love the woman you're going to marry. I loved her enough to kill the woman I married. Because I might as well have strangled Alva. I left her here to rot and I let myself forget how much she needed me, how much she always had. Maybe I can't do anything.

"You know I'll do it, Rafe. I'll be your best man." And if it kills me, I deserve to die. "I'm happy for you, honest." And if it kills me, I deserve to die.

Rafe thumps my shoulder. He smiles. He steps back and I look towards the corn fields. Just on the other side is the house I grew up in. And Alva. And everything, everything, that I've forgotten.

"You and Al, come over for dinner tomorrow," Rafe says. I wish he would go with me. I went to war with him. The least he could do is go to war with me now. "Danny, it's all going to work out, you know. Just tell her the truth." That I don't love her anymore.

"Yeah. You're right."

"Always am," he says with a laugh. That was true until today. I shift the weight of my bag to the other shoulder, it's almost too heavy to carry now, and I dive into the cornfields, the place where I first met my wife. I remember that.

* * *

Alva Clare

Mr. Walker has been standing in the backyard for hours. I can see him from the kitchen window as I wash the dishes, but I'm not really washing them anymore. I'm standing just like him, with suds up to my elbows. The Wilkes' boys haven't seen any caravans for the past few days. Whether that's a blessing or a curse, I don't know.

I was going through my mother's old diaries again today. Actually, I've been doing that much more lately. She told me so many things that I never listened to. Now I wish I had. Isn't that how all children are with their parents though? You just think you're in love and that the world will always be what it is in one particular moment. Then you grow up.

I was reading an entry from right after we moved here, to Tennessee, after the accident. It's strange, that accident, how my life unravels from then. Sometimes I wonder where I would be now if my father hadn't died. What if he hadn't gone for a drive that morning? What if he hadn't tail spun into the river? I never would have come to America. I wouldn't have met Danny, married Danny, lost Danny. Then I wonder if that's what I want. Because I did love him so very much. Because I was so very happy with him at one time. I don't think I can honestly say that I'd rather never have met him. Besides it doesn't matter. We are where we are. I can't be anywhere else. I can't be God, no matter how hard I pretend that I can change what's happened.

I was reading an entry in my mother's diary from right after we moved here. To Tennessee.

_Carl. Carl, I want to ask you if I've done the right thing in coming home. Alva is unhappy and I don't know how to comfort her anymore. I just can't bring myself to touch her. Of course I love her. Or do I? Am I just saying what I'm supposed to as her mother? She hasn't done anything wrong, but she reminds me so much of you. She reminds me of us and it causes me such pain. My own daughter! Sometimes I wish she'd died instead of you. I shouldn't write such things. I shouldn't think them. Sometimes I wish everyone else in the world had died instead of you, because I can't live when you're gone. _

_I stay in bed for days. I've locked mother out. I've locked our daughter out. I just can't seem to lock you out. Carl. Remember how we met? You were the enemy. A German soldier. I was a nurse, a child run away from home, looking for adventure and pretending that what I really wanted was to save people. I found you on the field and I thought then that you were dead. I cried for you, even though you were the enemy. I cried for all of you. Then you moved. You opened your eyes, your beautiful eyes, and you said two words. "Save me." I was still pretending then and I couldn't leave you. So I tore away what was left of your uniform and I dressed you in the clothes of a dead, American soldier. I called for help. I watched them carry you to the tents. I stayed with you every moment. When you finally woke, I told you to keep quiet. No one could know who you were. Thank God you spoke English well enough, but your accent could have had us both killed. Remember? Do you?_

_Weren't we brave then? And now I can't bring myself to leave this room, because everything frightens me, because everything reminds me of you in some way. I saved you then. Why couldn't I save you again? Who will save me? I've lost you. I've lost myself. Did I do the right thing in coming home? Because I keep wondering if you'll show up at our doorstep in France and we won't be there. I just want you to show up on my doorstep._

Mr. Walker is still standing in the backyard. We don't move much in this house. When I was a child, I didn't understand my mother. I even hated her. Now I think I do understand. She was waiting for him to come home. I think she was waiting until the day she died, but I don't want to do that. I can't lock myself away from the world, even if it reminds me of him. I can't wait my life away.

There's a loud knock at the door. In the ruptured silence, I slice my hand on a knife buried somewhere beneath the suds. It doesn't take long for the water to turn pink, even after my hand is out. The cut is shallow across my palm. There's another knock, but they'll wait. Or they'll leave. It's probably no one. People don't visit this house. Not anymore. They can't be seen paying calls to the drunkard and the harlot. Word gets out too quickly in this small town. It's probably someone collecting money that I don't have to repay debts that I have too many of. Another knock.

I turn away from the window and press a dish cloth to my bleeding hand. I don't bother wiping the soap suds off of my arms. I don't bother pulling my hair out of my face or straightening my stained apron. No one sees me anyways. I could be bald and scarred and decapitated, but no one in this town would see past my reputation. Another knock.

"Hold your horses. I'm coming!" The front door seems much further away than I thought it was. I cross the foyer, weave through the mildewed and sagging furniture, before I make it there. The person on the other side is a blur through the thick-paned windows. Another knock and I'm irritated now. Can't they just leave me alone? Perhaps it's the Wilkes boys. They like to drop by from time to time, just to through rotten vegetables at the house. Little bastards.

I open the door a small crack, hiding behind it. I open my mouth to scream, curse, and tell them to get the hell off of my porch. I open my mouth and it stays open, but nothing comes out. Not even breath. The dirty, now bloodied, dish cloth falls from my hands.

There he is, on my doorstep, and he's just the way I remember; in his travel worn uniform, wind-tussled hair that's grown some, and the duffel bag that I packed nearly five years ago thrown over his shoulder. My body aches to throw itself into his arms, but at the same time I fear my knees might collapse. Am I happy? Am I disappointed? Am I? Am I even alive? He can't be here.

"Hello Alva," Danny says. His voice, like it always did, thunders across the ground beneath my feet. He sounds tired. He sounds real, but I still can't quite accept him.

"You're dead," I whisper. Finding words. "Aren't you?"

"I don't think so." He smiles, half-heartedly, grimly. And it all starts to become real. He doesn't look exactly the same as I last saw him. He looks older, beaten, exhausted, and maybe afraid. He looks just like me, and that's when I remember to be afraid as well.

"Do you think I can come in?" he asks. I almost laugh. He's asking to come into his own house. As if I have the choice to say no. Though I'd like to. I'd like to say, "Actually, now isn't a good time. Come back in four months. Or don't." Instead I pull the door open the rest of the way, slowly, coming out of hiding. And while I open the door, I think that maybe he'll see me like the others don't. I hope that he sees past my reputation.

"Thanks. It's been a long trip and I'm…I'm…" Danny could be staring at the stained apron. I could pretend like that's the cause behind his horrified expression, but I'm tired of lying to myself. He's looking at the swell of my stomach, the damned thing that I can't hide, my damned reputation. He's looking at my crime, my sin, my punishment. He doesn't see me.

"You're pregnant?" he says quietly. "You're pregnant." Not so quietly.

"Five months today. Welcome home, darling." And I don't bother to disguise the frustration, the sarcasm, or the hate in my voice. Because I've fully accepted that he's not dead. I could have forgiven him if he'd died. I could have forgiven him for leaving and for not writing and for not caring.

"How could you?" Danny is still staring at my stomach. I fold my arms over the swell.

"How could I? You've been gone for five years, Danny."

"FIGHTING A GODDAMN WAR!" His scream shakes dust from the porch rafters. I can't recall a time he's ever yelled at me, at least like that, but I don't flinch. He isn't the only one who's angry.

"So have I." I don't yell. I'm too tired for that. "Do you think it's been easy? Look around, Danny. See the dead crops? See the broken windows? I can hardly afford buy food. And where have you been? Well, I wouldn't know, would I?"

"I'm sorry your life has been so damn hard," Danny spits. "I was just having a blast overseas, risking my life every day."

"Aren't you just the hero then?"

"And aren't you just the little whore!" Before I can stop myself, not that I would have wanted to, I slap him with my cut hand. It probably hurts me worse than him, but the look of shock on his face is well worth the pain. Danny touches his cheek gently. He draws back his fingers to look at the blood, my blood.

"You stopped writing. I didn't even know whether or not you were alive. What did you want me to do? Waste my life away waiting on you, when you clearly didn't care enough to send one goddamn letter?"

"I…I…"

"You what, Daniel?" For the first time since I opened the door, he pulls his eyes away from my swollen stomach to look me. His jaw is pulled tight. His expression is colder than I've ever seen it. This man, whoever he is, is not the boy I fell in love with, the boy I married. This man is a stranger with my blood still on his face and hands.

"You're my wife. It was your duty to wait, not leap into another man's bed."

"And you're my husband," I snap. "Or did you forget? It's fine for you to run off and have some grand adventure, but I'm supposed to stay behind and cross stitch? I'm supposed to wait by the door for the rest of my life, wait for a man who might as well have been dead?"

"Yes."

"Yes?" I repeat, stunned.

"YES!" I leap back as Danny's fist flies forward. It passes me, so close that my hair stirs, and meets the wall. "YES, DAMN IT." He grabs my shoulders hard. It isn't the loving embrace I used to imagine on those first nights after he left. It's painful. Frightening. His knuckles are cracked from meeting the wall and now his blood stains my neck. We're just covered in each other's blood. We stand like this for a long time. His touch burns. It's conflicting. There is some part of me, some quiet and lonely part, that never wants him to let go. Then there is the louder part that never wants him to touch me again. We just stare at one another, unsure what to say. Welcome home, Danny. Welcome home.

Danny's hands drop away. He steps to the side and looks out across the corn fields.

"Leave," he says coldly.

"Excuse me?" Danny grabs my arm and pulls me out of the door way, across the porch, down the steps. I trip after him, trying to twist away, until he shoves me into the overgrown yard.

"Get out of my house."

"Danny, I don't have anywhere else to go. You can't do this." And I hate myself for begging, but what else can I do? No one in this whole, stupid town will take me in. I'm alone. Completely alone.

"DON'T TELL ME WHAT I CAN'T DO!" he roars. "I'm sure you can find another man's bed to share."

"Danny! Danny!" He turns his back to me. I stand frozen in the yard as he storms into the house and slams the door. More dust falls. The lock clicks. "Danny, you bastard. You fucking bastard." I kick the dirt. It does nothing. He doesn't come back.

I don't know how long I stand here, but the sun has begun to set. The crickets are chirping. He doesn't come back. Welcome home. I turn away from the dark house and start walking, though I don't know where and I don't know for how long. My husband, it turns out I've lost him after all. And if I was God, if I could go back and change everything, I would never have met Danny Walker. I certainly would never have married him.


	5. The things ashamed people do

_You asked me once, and I could give no answer,_

_How far dare we throw off the daily ruse,_

_Official treacheries of face and name…_

May, 1929

Woodland Mills, Tennessee

The old woman liked to talk. She talked more than anyone Alva had ever met and it was never pleasant. It seemed she hated everyone. As they strode through town, Alva shuffling behind in her too small shoes that pinched her toes, the old woman hissed under her rotten breath.

"That's Mr. Oliver." Her beady eyes darted to a portly man in a tweed suit, with a jovial smile, spitting watermelon seeds onto the pavement. "He teaches English up at the school, but not for much longer, I hope. The things he has those kids read, all of those liberal ideas! Oh, and there's Susie Jean, wearing that sinful red paint on her nails again. I can't stand lose women."

Alva could name just about everyone in Woodland Mills by noon. She knew about Patrick Simon's stomach ulcers, Mrs. Johnson's affair with the newspaper delivery man, and every gritty detail of Pastor Evans' offering scam two years ago. She could recite every bad thing anyone in the town had ever done, but she didn't know one good thing about any of them, and she wondered if they were all just rotten like the old woman.

Some of them stopped to talk. They all looked at Alva like she was a very small bug they were trying to decide whether or not to squash. They all said the same thing. "Oh, so you're Constance's little girl. Well, you look just like her." But Alva could tell that wasn't a compliment and no one mentioned her father. It was almost like she didn't have one, like he'd never existed, and she wanted to tell them all that she had her papa's eyes. She wanted to tell them that she wasn't a little girl. She was old enough to understand that they didn't want her in their town, but not quite old enough to understand why.

Alva didn't dare ask the old woman to explain. She'd learned that keeping quiet resulted in less bruised knuckles and rear ends, usually. Instead she walked with her head down against the sun's white glare and only looked at people's feet, because she hated all of their unwelcome faces and cold curious eyes. She saw scuffed loafers and shiny heels, European clogs and leather sandals; all of their feet clacking and shuffling and whispering on the sidewalk. Happy feet with a bounce to their steps, sad feet with heels dragging, hurried feet moving swiftly; they were all so different from hers. Alva felt like she was still on the boat that had brought her here, unsteady on the waves, when everyone else knew exactly how to walk and she always felt she was about to fall. Even her stomach was queasy. She hadn't lost the sea sickness. She was afraid she never would.

"Goodness, Miz Marge, you're one difficult lady to track down." Alva peeked around the old woman's bulk and looked up from the ground for the first time in hours. A small blonde woman, a basket of apples bundled in her arms, smiled with rows of bright teeth against cherry lips. She was the prettiest thing Alva had ever seen, even with beads of sweat collecting in the hollow of her collarbone and the buttons of her flowered blouse crooked. She balanced the basket on her hip and pushed the gold curls away from her forehead.

"Good afternoon, Elsa," the old woman said curtly, with an open scowl. "How are you?" She asked in a tone that suggested she didn't really want to know, but the pretty woman, Elsa, smiled wider.

"I'm fine, just fine, though it's hot as the fourth of July today." Alva was mesmerized by the woman's cool voice. It was a glass of ice lemonade, more sugar than sour, and heavily twanged. Alva hadn't grown accustomed to the way people talked here yet. She couldn't understand them most of the time. It was like another language. She could comprehend French better than Southern, but this woman's voice wasn't as rough as everyone else she'd heard.

"I thought you might like some apples. They're extra red this year. Juicy too." Elsa jostled the basket on her hip and held them out to the old woman. They did look good glinting in the noon sun. Alva's mouth watered, but the old woman looked down her nose at the offering.

"How kind of you," she said, her voice pure starch. "Alva, carry these." Alva stepped forward quickly to take the basket. It sagged in her arms. She ground her teeth together and tried to keep her shoulders from sloping under the basket's weight. The old woman didn't accept poor posture, but Alva could hardly hold the basket up. It slipped in her sweaty fingers.

"Oh dear." Elsa clucked her tongue. "You can't carry that all the way home, sweetheart." She took the basket out of Alva's arms and glanced across the street. "Rafe! Get over here!" she yelled across the street. Alva was surprised that she could yell when her voice seemed so gentle.

Two boys hurried across the street. Alva recognized one of them, the boy from the cornfield. Her cheeks flamed as he drew closer and she stepped behind the safety of the old woman's menacing frame again.

"Rafe, dear, carry this back to Miz Marge's house." Elsa passed the basket to the boy Alva didn't recognize. He was shorter than the other one, but somehow he seemed taller. His sandy brown hair reminded Alva of the beach and his eyes were cloudy green just like the ocean.

"Yes ma'am," the boy, Rafe, chirped.

"Alva, go with them." The old woman pushed Alva towards the boys. She didn't want to go with them, even if it meant getting away from the old woman for awhile. The boy she'd tripped over in the cornfield didn't look thrilled either.

Without waiting for her, the two boys started walking the way Alva and the old woman had come earlier that morning. With a shove and a pinch from her grandmother, she followed them, but it was Elsa's encouraging smile that kept her from standing still on the sidewalk forever.

Alva trudged a few paces behind the boys. She chewed on the end of her braid and kept her eyes to the ground, where it was safer to look, and they ignored her until they were out of town. Then Rafe stopped and turned around.

"My daddy says your daddy was a German." Rafe looked at her through narrowed eyes. "We don't want no Krauts here."

Alva didn't know what to say, so she said nothing. Now she understood why no one wanted her here, because she was a German, a _Kraut_.

"So why don't you just go back to where you came from, eat your sauerkraut, and leave us the Hell alone."

Alva met the boy's eyes and squared her shoulders. She'd been pinched and fussed at for too long. She'd been silent. She'd let the old woman push her around and say terrible things about her father, but she wouldn't let this stupid boy with dirt on his knees do the same. Even though she didn't want to be here anymore than they wanted her to be. She'd gladly go home and never come back.

"What's the matter, Kraut? Can't you speak English?"

"Don't call me that," Alva said through clenched teeth.

"What's that, Rhine Monkey?" Rafe set down the basket of apples and stepped closer to her. His friend, the boy from the cornfield, was grinning, and Alva hated them both. She hated everyone in this stupid town; the old woman, these boys, and everyone else who had looked down their nose at her since she'd come.

Still unsure what to say, Alva plucked an apple from the basket and chucked it at Rafe before he could move any closer. The hard fruit hit him between the eyes. He stumbled back cursing. Alva grabbed another and tossed it at his friend. Then she ran. She left the apples, even though the old woman would be mad at her, and ran as fast as she could. She heard the boys yelling after her.

"That's right! Run!" Rafe called, rubbing his sore forehead.

"German coward," the other boy from the cornfield said. Alva stopped. There was a safe distance between them now. She stared hard at the dark-haired boy. He stared hard back.

"I'd rather be a German coward than an American cry baby!" Alva yelled back to them. Even from far away, she could see his cheeks turn red, but she didn't wait for them to sling more insults her way. She ran all of the way back to the old woman's house. They didn't chase her, but Alva felt like something was, something that she couldn't ever run away from; shame. For the first time in her life, she was ashamed of who she was. She wished her father hadn't been German, because maybe then everyone here wouldn't hate her so much, and she hated herself most of all for being ashamed of her father.


	6. Chapter Three

_Have out our true identity? I could hazard_

_an answer now, if you're still asking._

Woodland Mills, Tennessee

1945

_Flyboy,_

_ Today I didn't leave the bed. I stayed there all day. Remember when we used to do that on hot days and just make love and sleep? I miss those days. I miss you beside me. I can't sleep in our room anymore. It's too hard always thinking you're not where you should be, with me. I just stare up at the ceiling and imagine all of the terrible things that might happen to you, because we're in the war now. I heard it on the radio two days ago._

_ All the husbands are following your example. They're leaving. They're going off to fight for something or other. I swear, there isn't a man left in this town, and all of these women left to their own devices, well it's just a disaster waiting to happen. You wouldn't believe the gossip! Yesterday I heard that Mary Jane, you remember her, was caught with her skirts up behind Charlie's Grocery store. You won't guess who she was with either. The bag boy! That pimply faced rug-a-muffin. I nearly died laughing. But listen to me. I'm almost as bad as my grandmother was._

_ There just isn't much else to do around here anymore. I listen to all the gossip now just to keep sane, to feel a little less lonely. It helps until night time._

_ Sarah Pickett is pregnant again. I don't know how she does it, poor thing. She waddles around town with all of her children behind her like little ducklings. The oldest boy has become quite the hellion. He reminds me a lot of someone. You perhaps. Or maybe more of Rafe._

_ What do you think of us having a baby someday? We've never really talked about it, but I wish we'd gotten started before you left, because then at least I would have had some part of you to hold onto. Not that I'd be a good mother. We both know I can hardly take care of myself. Still, it might be nice, don't you think? A baby. Our baby. What would we name it? Would you want a boy or a girl? I think a boy would be better. Girls are too much trouble. They're always sneaking off with boys to the barn in the middle of the night. I'd know, wouldn't I? But you were pretty persuasive back then. Oh, you sure knew how to sweet talk, Mr. Walker._

_ A girl would be fine too. We could name her after your mother. Or mine. Or both. Caroline Constance Walker. That sounds sort of nice, don't you think? If we had a boy, I'd let you name him. A father should always name his son, I suppose. But look at me, I'm rambling on about babies. We have plenty of time to think about all of that when you come home._

_ So come home. Please. I'm still waiting, Flyboy. I'll wait until the sun burns out if I have to._

_ Love Al_

* * *

Danny Walker

I've left footprints in the dust that covers our room; mine and Alva's room. In her letters she confessed that she couldn't sleep here alone. Now I'm lying in our bed and I understand what she meant. It is difficult. I can't stop tossing and turning. I can't stop thinking about how we used to be happy here. This was our bed. This is where I should be holding her after having been gone for so long, but nothing's gone like it should have. We're all wrong. We're all messed up.

I clamber out of our bed and reach under it for the chest that Alva used to keep there. She hasn't moved it. I heft it onto the bed and sit with my bare feet in the dust, tapping my fingers against the cedar. There's no lock. She trusted me enough to never open it. She said there were certain things she needed to keep to herself, certain things that she needed to belong to her alone, and I never thought about what she kept inside. We're all entitled to a few secrets. At least that's what I used to believe, but now I want to know. What else has she kept from me? What else don't I know about her, apart from everything?

The chest hasn't been opened in a while. I can tell by how the lid sticks. It clicks when I push it open. The hinges creak, but I don't look inside yet. I run my fingers along the rough wood and the hand-carved designs. Her father made this a long time ago. He made it for her mother as a wedding present, because he had nothing more to offer than the work of his own hands. That's the way Alva told me about it. She always made things sound prettier than they really were. Well, she used to. The woman who I saw today didn't seem like the type for pretty words. The woman who answered that front door wasn't the same one I married. Then again, I suppose I'm not the same man.

Alva looked tired. I wonder if I do too. I keep re-playing everything she said to me. _What did you want me to do? Waste my life waiting on you…_ Is that what I wanted? She promised she would. She promised she'd wait for me until the sun burned out. I suppose we both made a lot of promises we didn't keep. To honor and cherish. To love until death do us part. Maybe we both did die. The people who we used to be.

_And you're my husband. Or did you forget?_ I forgot. I forgot until she swung open that front door. I forgot until I realized just how much she hates me now. And a part of me must hate her too. My pride is in pieces. This whole goddamn town must know that she cheated. How could they not, when she's walking around with another man's baby swelling inside of her? She betrayed me. Of all the things I thought might happen when I came home, this wasn't one of them.

Yet how can I blame her, when everything she said was true? I was the one who stopped writing. I was the one who left. I was the one who fell in love with another woman. We're both sinners. It's just easier to be angry with her than face my own guilt. After all, I was in the thick of a war. If she cared about me wouldn't she have waited like she promised? She was supposed to be mine. She is mine. Damn her.

I plunge my hand into the darkness of the chest, into the darkness of my wife's secrets. It might as well all be out in the open now. What does it matter if I break her trust now? I think we're a little bit past trust.

The first thing I touch is small and cold. I hold it up into the moonlight striping through the open window, even though I knew what it was before I could see it. Alva's wedding ring. It's heavy in the palm of my hand. I remember when it used to shine. Now it's dull. She hasn't worn it in a long time. I wonder just how long. Then I think about my wedding ring, in an envelope, at the bottom of my unpacked things, where it's been since Evelyn came along. Did Alva hide hers when she found someone new too? Is this her great secret; our marriage? Me.

I throw the ring across the room. It clings against the wall. I hear it roll into a dusty corner of the room, lost, and I don't care about what else she's hiding in her damned trunk. I slam it closed and push it back under the bed, before leaving the room. I can't be in there any longer. I can't be alone with the memories of us, when there is no us anymore, but those memories are everywhere in this house, even in the kitchen, where I end up.

Alva must have been washing dishes when I knocked on the door. They're still in the sink. I pick out a chipped plate. I remember the day she dropped it. She dropped things all of the time. With the rag she left on the counter, I dry the plate. I finish the job she started, because it feels good to do something useful with my hands, something that doesn't involve guns. When I'm done and the dishes are all put away, I fill up a glass with water from the faucet.

"You're gonna want something stronger than that." Dad stands in the darkened doorway, a bottle of whiskey in hand. Is the glass half full or empty? For us, it's empty. He collapses at the table.

"Bring over a glass," he orders. Who am I to refuse? I can't remember a time he was sober. Now I'm starting to understand why. With two glasses I join him. We don't bother turning on the lights. It's better this way. We can't see how old we both are.

"Well, you didn't die," Dad states, like a commonplace thing, like a comment on the weather. He takes a swig, before nudging the bottle to me. I didn't need to bring the glasses. We don't bother with them. We pass the bottle back and forth, silent, remembering that time has passed between us as well. I haven't spoken to my father sense the day I left. I think I hated him then, for being a drunken bastard. Now I know he's just another man ruined by war. We all leave singing and young. We come home tired and speechless. If we come home at all.

"Congratulations," Dad says through a burp, lifting the whiskey bottle.

"For what?"

"Winning." I know what he means, but I don't feel like I've won anything. He drinks. I drink.

"You know, when I came home, yer mama was waiting on the front porch. I don't think she left the whole time I's gone." He wipes the back of his mouth with his sleeve. I can feel the whiskey warm and bubbling in my stomach and head. Dad hasn't mentioned my mother, not once since we buried her. She died when I was seven years old. Most people around here say of a broken heart. Some think he killed her, but my father never laid a hand on Mama. He loved her. He loved her even through the booze. I was the one who knew the backside of his fist.

"Yeah, yer mama was a good woman." And I know what he isn't saying. Mama was a good woman. Alva isn't. It isn't news to me. He's always hated her. He wouldn't even come to the wedding. Instead he drank himself into a stupor.

"You heard us?" I ask, thinking about my fight with Alva.

"Son, the whole town heard you. Good riddance, I say." Another swig. He isn't sharing anymore, but I feel too sick to drink now. "Warned you not to marry that German whore and I was right, wasn't I?"

"Dad-"

"But you never listened to yer old man. Now look at'cha. Yer pretty, lil' wife done fucked everyone in town. Cold banging the-"

"Enough," I snap. Enough. He laughs, like this is some kind of joke, not my life falling apart. Dad leans across the table, grinning in the dark, and a thought hits me all of a sudden. Alva stayed with him. She could have thrown him out. God knows he probably gave her Hell, but she didn't. She took care of him, my father, despite how much he's always hated her. Despite that he's never once, not a single goddamned time, addressed Alva by her name. She's always been the German whore to him, always been the Kraut. Old prejudices never die I suppose, but Alva doesn't hold grudges that way. She was always too forgiving. She always let herself get hurt because of it.

"So when you gonna sign those divorce papers? No one would blame you for em'." Divorce? I hadn't even considered. It seems the logical thing and Dad's right, no one would condemn me for leaving her. They probably expect it. But divorce? Where would she go? No one in this town would take her in. Maybe Rafe, but she couldn't stay there forever, not when he's about to marry…marry Evelyn. And the baby? They wouldn't survive.

I think of the wedding ring in Alva's cedar chest. I think of the day I slipped it onto her finger and made all of those promises. I take you, Alva Clare Eichel, to be my wedded wife. To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, and this is certainly worse. This is certainly not what either of us had planned on that day, all of those years ago, when we were different people, but life, I suppose, isn't as easy as we used to think it was either, when love and long summers were all we needed. But Alva took care of my drunken, spiteful, impossible father. I can only think of one reason why she would do that…some part of her still belongs to me. Some part of her was always waiting and I'm tired of breaking my promises.

"Well?" Dad presses. "Go as soon as you can. Tomorrow even."

"No."

"No?" I stand with my mind made up.

"No, pa. I won't divorce her." Because I'm not the coward he is and I won't lose myself in a bottle. I won't push aside the world just because it hurts.

"Whaddya mean you won't divorce her?" Dad tries, and fails, to stand. His fury sparks in the dark, but I'm already walking away, and he's too drunk to follow.

"She doesn't love you, Danny!" he yells after me. Maybe she doesn't. Judging by the way of things, I highly doubt she even likes me. Then again I guess I stopped loving her a long time ago too. Probably first. It doesn't change the promises we made. She's still my wife. I abandoned her once. I won't do it again.

* * *

Alva Clare

I couldn't sleep. The baby is restless. I think it understands sometimes what's going on out here. Or maybe it just feels that I'm restless too. The crickets sing while I rock back and forth, trying to put the baby to sleep, and the stars don't shine on me through the roof of Rafe's front porch. The moon doesn't shine on me.

Strange how I thought I was lonely before with Danny gone and now that he's back I feel even more alone. Even the baby wants to leave me. It's kicking something fierce. I think it's trying to escape and I can't blame it. Still I hug my stomach, because it's the only thing I have to hold onto as the tears I've been fighting finally win the war and march single file down my cheeks.

I start thinking about where I'm going to go, how I'm supposed to raise this baby on my own, an unwed and disgraced mother. I start thinking about how hopeless everything is and I can't breathe. There's nothing I can do. Move to the city. Find a job. Struggle to raise this baby alone, when no one taught me how to be a mother. And worst of all I want Danny, because he's the only person in this damned world who's ever been able to save me, then I remember those days are over. Danny's made his decision. What did I honestly expect? That he would forgive me, ridiculous. Did I think he'd help me raise a child that isn't even his?

I remember when we were happy, the two of us, and we agreed that if we ever had a girl, we'd name her after our mothers. Caroline Constance. I stroke my stomach, wondering what I'll name this baby, wondering if it's a girl, wondering how different things would have been if it was Danny's. Then I remember, I always remember, that he stopped writing. He doesn't love me. I don't love him. Anything we had is gone, including dreams of a happy future together, and I can't breathe again until I feel warm hands on my cheeks.

"Al," Rafe croons, kneeling in front of me. "Don't cry, sweetheart, he'll come around. He just needs time." I shake my head so hard it makes my neck hurt. I push Rafe away. I push everyone away it seems.

"He won't," I say. Wiping my sore eyes on my sleeve, I look past Rafe into the shadowy cornfield. Danny's house is just on the other side. I first met him in that cornfield. I fell for him, literally, that day so long ago and he'd been the one crying then.

"He hates me," I mutter. Rafe steps to the edge of the porch and leans over the rail, his back to me.

"Danny could never hate you. Damnit, Al, he fell in love with you the first time he saw you."

"Actually he pushed me into the dirt." The memory brings a faint smile to my lips. The first smile in a long time. Rafe turns just in time to see, before it fades.

"That's just how boys are," Rafe says, grinning. He looks just like the boy that used to tease me, the boy that always got me into trouble. God, I missed him. There was never a time I couldn't count on Rafe. Even today, when I showed up at his front door after five years, a pregnant mess, he took me in, no questions asked. That's just the kind of man Rafe is, a good man, a good friend.

"Things have changed." I hold my baby tighter. "We've changed." Rafe crouches in front of me again. He rests his hands over mine. The baby kicks and he smiles.

"Yeah, you have put on a little weight," Rafe chuckles. I can't help but smile again. It's weak, but it's a start. Rafe kisses my knuckles. He needs a shave. Judging by the circles under his eyes, he needs sleep as well. I can't even begin to imagine what he's been through, what he's seen. I can't believe that my Rafe, my best friend, has been to war. He's killed husbands, brothers, and fathers. There's blood on the hands that hold mine. I can't believe that my husband is just the same.

"Rafe," I murmur, holding his hands tighter. "What am I going to do?"

"You're going to talk to Danny." He untangles his fingers from mine gently and stands. I blink up at him, confused.

"You're so sure he'll come," I snap. "But he won't. I know he won't."

"Really? Then what's he doing in my front yard?"

"What?" I stand as quickly as I can, which isn't very quick at all, and look around Rafe. Sure enough, Danny's just emerged from the cornfield. He's strolling towards us, still a few feet away, his shadow stretching ahead of him with more confidence than his body.

"I'll give you two some privacy." Rafe slips back inside the house, before I can beg him to stay.


End file.
